Introduction

The title of this book indicates my concern with an inquiry into the possibilities and limits of understanding as well as of relating in practice to others, especially in specific historical contexts. This inquiry crucially includes an attempt to come to terms with problems such as transference, projection, victimization, and scapegoating. It would be an understatement to say that the other, including the other within, has been a concern of critical thought for quite some time. Perhaps the most influential notion of the other (or others) within has been Sigmund Freud’s understanding of unconscious processes. Emmanuel Levinas’s notion of an absolute, totally other, which he finds basic to one’s infinite ethical responsibility toward others, has also become prevalent, especially in terms of Jacques Derrida’s adoption of it with respect to every other who is asserted to be totally other.¹ I find to be of particular heuristic value the Freudian idea that in every other (as in oneself), there is something other, in the form of unconscious processes that limit the fulfillment of the classical dictum Know thyself, while qualifying—but not entirely disqualifying—the applicability of the ideal of individual identity, agency, and responsibility. The attempt to expel this other within, which problematizes identity and causes anxiety in the self, and to project it onto a discrete other, is one dimension of the process of scapegoating that creates a clear-cut binary opposition between self and other (or us and them).

In Freud alterity or otherness is linked to the role of transference, which signals the mutual but differential implication of the self in others. Transference has an inherently social dimension in its bearing on mutual implication that in a sense brings primary heteronomy and the tendency to repeat, at times compulsively. It also is a basis of empathy or compassion, indeed care and love, and, in a negative form, of hatred, animosity, scapegoating, and violence. It makes identity and relative autonomy regulative ideals that may not attain fulfillment but that may be sufficiently achieved to allow for moral responsibility and political agency. Transference as self-implication, involving a tendency to repeat, is most evident and perhaps most forceful with respect to one’s relation to authority and idealized figures, real or fantasized. It may also offer a broader perspective on the issue of participant observation, significant in anthropology and pronounced in the life and work of Frank Hamilton Cushing. And it has links with Jacques Derrida’s approach to deconstruction and with M. M. Bakhtin’s inquiry into dialogization in language use.

Freud denied a role in the unconscious for ordinary or chronological time. But the case is different for uncanny forms of temporality such as the return of the repressed, belated effects, and compulsive repetition. The latter seem to suspend time and, in post-traumatic symptoms such as recurrent dreams, involve a captivating sense of full presence or the feeling that one is back there reliving a past that seems intemporal and is existentially more real than any actual present or future. A challenge is to see how transference and the repetition compulsion may be cogently argued to be at work or at play in various areas of both individual and collective life, perhaps even in governmental policies and social action. A difficult question concerning transference is how and in what ways it is possible to repeat after the fact, or belatedly reexperience and reenact, something as profoundly traumatic and seemingly alien as aspects of the Holocaust or other extreme events involving violence, scapegoating, and abuse, perhaps events one has never directly experienced oneself. And how can one come to terms with and, to some extent, work through, such possibly incapacitating experiences in ways that enable the understanding of others—other peoples, animals, and pasts—not simply as alien entities or as projections of the self?

There may still be historical work to do on events of the Holocaust itself. But there is also the important issue of its aftermath, including its at times belatedly traumatic effects on children and intimates of perpetrators, victims, and others involved in it. This aftermath also raises the question of relations both actual and theoretical to other possibly traumatic phenomena such as abuse, racism, scapegoating, and colonialism. Attention to trauma is not restricted to, but in recent thought may often be epitomized by, the Holocaust and its aftermath. But trauma in general has aftereffects and is attended by the issue of its contestable representation in various areas (such as historiography, film, literature, and other forms of art) and its at times questionable uses in politics and more generally in society and culture.

Understood in more or less revisionary ways, psychoanalysis is not a psychology in any conventional sense. Rather it is a form of critical theory whose basic concepts (transference as well as trauma, repression, dissociation, denial, repetition, displacement, condensation, projection, incorporation, acting out, working over, and working through) are best understood as undercutting the opposition between individual and society and as individuated or collectivized in different ways in various contexts. Most significantly, basic psychoanalytic concepts signal the mutual implication and interaction of the individual and the social as well as pointing to the role of political thought and action (notably as a crucial dimension of working through problems that call for compassion and respect for otherness or difference but are not simply psychic). All of the various procedures and defense mechanisms discussed by Freud are quite significant. They play differential roles in different times and places and may have analogues (such as exorcism) that cannot simply be reduced to them. I find the tendency to divert and displace or pivot and project to be almost compulsively pronounced in recent political and social events, and hence at times place special emphasis on it.

As regards transference, the historian is not in a unique position, although certain techniques may serve as safeguards. Objectification is one such technique, as is its complement, contextualization. But, taken to an extreme, such techniques may involve the denial of transference, which, despite denial, may nonetheless take place in uncontrolled forms. This is not the place to analyze the work of various historians in this regard.² But one notable example of repetition with minimal change with respect to a seemingly objectified study is Andreas Hillgruber’s Zweierlei Untergang: Die Zerschlagung der Deutschen Reiches und das Ende des europaïschen Judentums.³ In it Hillgruber argues that the historian studying these two downfalls must take the putative perspective of the German nation as a whole (excluding the victims) and empathize with Germans in the east (where Hillgruber himself came from), notably German soldiers fighting the invading Russians on the eastern front. Germans on the eastern front may well deserve empathy or compassion as victims of killing, rape, and plunder by invading Russians. But, in generalizing in an exclusionary manner and focusing on the military, Hillgruber repeats in his own historical discourse what he construes as German perspectives during the war, even going to the point of setting up a dubious equivalence between the devastation of the Reich (Zerschlagung is a very charged term) and the euphemistically termed end of Jewry in Europe. (Jewry did not end. Jews were rounded up, confined, tortured, and killed, and their culture—or Judentum—was attacked and to a significant extent destroyed, fortunately and in spite of declared Nazi intentions, not to the point of bringing them or it to an end.)

To give a different example, while Lawrence Langer is technically not a historian, his Holocaust Testimonies: The Ruins of Memory⁴ is an important book for historians among others, and Langer’s relation to survivor testimonies is transferential to the point of identification and sacralization, including the insistently melancholic and almost dogmatic denial of the possibility for survivors to work through the past at least in the sense of rebuilding a viable post-Holocaust life. In Langer there is a sense in which victims cannot become survivors but must remain shattered victims. There is something similar in Claude Lanzmann, whose interest and highly affective, perhaps overly participatory response in his iconic 1985 film Shoah are devoted to the victim and not the survivor or only the survivor who can relive and, for the purposes of Lanzmann’s film, reenact or act out victimization. But Shoah is a film of unquestionably major importance. And Langer may be overreacting to what he plausibly sees as Charles Taylor’s extended neo-Hegelian placebo in Sources of the Self,⁵ where the Holocaust becomes little more than a blip in the history of a putatively onward-and-upward course of increasing Western justice and mercy.⁶

In my judgment, one may indeed represent important dimensions of the Holocaust and of the experience of victims and perpetrators during it without assuming that this is an easy or unproblematic undertaking or that it adequately renders that experience. Like many others, I find the idea that the Holocaust or traumatic experience during it is utterly unrepresentable to be dubious, and it is typically associated with the noli-me-tangere view that it is taboo, sacred, or sublime. Silence about traumatic, unspeakable events and one’s responses to them (including feelings of guilt or disorientation they may evoke) may understandably be widespread in survivors for a variety of reasons. As has been widely noticed, such silence may be a deeply felt form of respect that can attain religious or postsecular status, perhaps related to bonds with lost intimates. But it may also be both manipulated politically in self-interested fashion and serve to intensify at times fantasy-laden post-traumatic symptoms in the children or intimates of survivors, even for generations to come if that silence is not worked through at least in terms of being addressed in some viable manner.⁷ Especially in those born later whose relation to victims may be more remote, one may have the familiar paradox Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one cannot keep silent, the paradox of believing one can or should say nothing about certain events or experiences and finding oneself able to talk about nothing else, if only on the meta-level of endlessly rehearsing why one must keep silent.

The psychoanalytic concept of working through, which counteracts acting out and the repetition compulsion, implies a modulated form of repetition that engages transferential co-implication and resists compulsion and closure, yet comes with critical and self-critical judgment, enabling possible, and possibly more desirable, futures. Working through also involves opening the self to consideration and respect for, and at least limited understanding of, others as others not reduced to one’s own narcissistic projective or incorporative identifications. In this sense, it is required for moral as well as political responsibility and can be seen to have an ethical and political import, or even to involve social and political work. It is not confined to psychological response, a clinical context, or the one-on-one psychoanalytic relation. Nor should it be restricted to a talking cure, since it may not bring a full cure but require continual work on the self and on relations with others. And it may well involve acts and practices that are not talk or narrowly linguistic (for example, laughter, weeping, song, music, and bodily movements including dance, painting, and other art forms). It is in this sense that I have employed the concept of working through in earlier work and shall continue to do so in this book. Moreover, my approach to Sigmund Freud, as to Jacques Derrida or Mikhail Bakhtin—three figures whose thought plays an important role in the following pages—has been and continues to be selective and in part critical, not mimetic or dogmatic. I would nonetheless insist that a continuing interest in the thought of such important figures is not an old-fashioned fad or a fixation on the past. What is faddish or fixated is not the belief that there is still much of value in their work as well as in that of other significant thinkers and writers of the past. It is rather the continual quest for something new, which easily becomes an academic, professional, or artistic variant of planned obsolescence. The challenge is to see how what is of lasting value in past thought may be rethought and turned in directions that are not simply forms of mechanical repetition or defensive objectification.

The principal others I address from various perspectives are other animals, other peoples (notably Jews and Zunis, respectively, in relation to the Holocaust and to colonialism, along with possibly collusive and intrusive anthropological inquisitiveness), and one’s own as well as others’ pasts, especially insofar as they bear on and indeed may still be alive in or haunt the present. In historiography, it has become a cliché to say that the past is a foreign country. But this foreignness may uncannily recur with variations in the present, for example, in the form of disconcerting repetitions and sacrificial or quasi-sacrificial forces that are typically and deceptively situated outside modernity and construed as irrational atavisms. Hence, for example, approaches to the Holocaust have often been divided between construing the genocide as the result of modernizing forces (bureaucracy, alienation, and the industrialization of mass murder—probably the dominant historiographical approach) or as an effect of resurgent irrationality, notably in the form of the return of quasi-religious desires for purification and redemption (a less prominent but still active concern in historiography and related disciplines). It has become increasingly obvious that these two approaches are not mutually exclusive but historically and existentially intertwined and that the emphasis on instrumental rationality obviates the role of other forces that are deemed premodern and irrational only at the risk of underestimating their importance and their more or less displaced and distorted operation in modernity. One should also be sensitive to the ways processes active in the Holocaust, such as quasi-sacrificial desires for purification, self-justification, and even redemption or salvation, may not be unique to the desire to get rid of (entfernen) Jews but found in other prejudicial, scapegoating phenomena as well, which may at times go to violent, indeed genocidal or near-genocidal extremes. Ethnic cleansing may have both instrumentally rational dimensions (such as turf wars and the possession of land, jobs, and resources) and less instrumental, even quasi-ritual aspects (such as the sense of contamination from contact with certain others, particularly sexual contact, engendering demands for segregation, expulsion, or extermination).

Another form of alterity or otherness running through the analyses in this book is that which emerges from the division of labor or of spheres of activity, notably as this process applies to disciplines such as historiography, social science, philosophy, and literary criticism. There has of course long been a call for inter- or cross-disciplinarity as a requirement in the study of complex problems and processes. But this call may be honored in good part in name only, at times as a voice crying in the wilderness. Academic departments remain rather sharply differentiated, and individuals who cross disciplinary lines must not only (as well they should) be conversant with practices and protocols within other disciplines but also be able to embrace divided identities that may create distrust in colleagues seeking secure self-definition and identity (say, as a historian, philosopher, or literary critic). Such distrust may be prominent even in a theoretical orientation claiming to deconstruct or severely question the viability of unmarked or undivided identity, closure, and totalization. And whatever the dominant or prevalent theoretical or methodological tendencies in a discipline, the day-to-day interaction among colleagues brings practical forms of affiliation and of discourse that have an effect on thinking, writing, interpersonal interaction, and the education of students.

It is rare that a literature, philosophy, or even political science department will hire someone with a degree in history, and even more rare that a history department will hire someone with a degree in literary studies, philosophy, or even political science. Prizes such as book awards tend to be intra- rather than interdisciplinary, although some prize-winning books may of course have interdisciplinary dimensions. A continued source of debate is just how firm or secure disciplinary lines should be, as well as where a given inter- or cross-disciplinary concentration (such as critical theory, intellectual history, and historiographical theory or metahistory) best belongs. I also touch on the question of the extent to which historians themselves in the United States, England, and France read and try to understand one another across national boundaries. In what follows, lines between and within disciplines shall be crossed in ways that I hope prove to be thought provoking, open to debate, and even controversial but not undertaken for the sake of a shock effect that soon becomes all too predictable. Moreover, protocols, especially pronounced in professional history, may be breached, for example, with respect to footnotes that go beyond providing references for assertions and offer at times supplementary or even divergent perspectives, extending or displacing a point made in the principal body of the text.

I have earlier written on certain topics revisited in this book, and I attempt to treat them in ways that do not replicate but rather significantly vary, inflect, and go beyond what I have argued before. This is especially true of the problems of history, memory, the Holocaust, and other animals as well as the posthuman and the postsecular. I also comment on the electoral campaign and initial phase of the administration of Donald Trump, which contain elements that, unfortunately, are both timely and of continued relevance to the basic problems I treat. I try to make as explicit and clear as possible the respects in which I employ selectively and at times significantly revise Derrida’s deconstruction and Freud’s psychoanalysis as well as the dialogism elaborated by Mikhail Bakhtin. In some ways, the results are distinctive and my own responsibility, especially with respect to their bearing on historiography. At times I enter different areas, as in the discussion of Frank Hamilton Cushing and his adventures in Zuni. Cushing spent over four years in Zuni. He became a close associate of its Governor and even a member of its prestigious religious society of the Bow. But Zuni and other indigenous peoples remain divided or at times ambivalent about his role at Zuni, often seeing it in contrasting terms of intrusive betrayal or attempted empathic understanding. The chapter points to the tensions in Cushing’s role as an other or outsider who became at least to some extent an important insider. It also explores the relations between the still controversial anthropological method of participant observation and the psychoanalytic concept of transference. Indeed, in Cushing’s relations with the Zuni, one has a striking case of the promises and pitfalls of being with and trying to understand others, a case that still poses challenges for the Zuni, other indigenous peoples, and those who attempt to be compassionate yet critically self-conscious commentators.

It is evident that otherness or alterity wears many masks, only some of which I shall explore here.⁸ Furthermore, many of those to whom I refer (such as Frank Hamilton Cushing, Edward S. Curtis, and George Custer) are controversial in ways I do not explicitly explore but often point to even while indicating why I find such figures worth careful study. I would add that, like history, anthropology has long existed with a tense if not combative relation between its social-scientific and humanistic tendencies. The former, especially via an association with archaeology, can veer toward scientism or at least empirical and monographic narrowness. And the humanistic pull has at times gone in the direction of extremely speculative, abstract theoreticism. A new look at a figure such as Cushing may help to revive an interest in the history of anthropology and to rekindle a more challenging interaction between humanistic and social-scientific orientations (as well as between theory and research) in anthropological and ethnographic studies. It may even point to anthropology’s posthumanist and postsecular possibilities, notably in terms of relations with other animals and a rethinking of indigenous spirituality, including the role of the fetish and the katsina (or kachina).⁹ An especially challenging feature of Cushing is the way his thought and practice tend to be an embarrassment to professional anthropologists and historians who do not simply exclude or marginalize him with respect to their field of concern. The reason may well be that he insistently enacts or even acts out transferential relations in forms of participant observation, and the latter are often if not typically avoided, repressed, or denied as part and parcel of important forms of professionalization and disciplinary practice that separate sharply between self and other, observer and observed, or past and present.

The chapter on history and literature takes the form of a review essay or dialogic exchange with the important book of Ivan Jablonka, L’histoire est une littérature contemporaine: Manifeste pour les sciences sociales.¹⁰ It also provides an instance of what I defend in intellectual and cultural history: an extended critical analysis and attempt to understand specific texts and artifacts (as well as their larger contexts of production and reception). Jablonka seeks something other than a mere combination of history, social science, and literature. He would like history, itself understood as a social science, to be a literature of the real world. He is also interested in literature informed not only by the results but, more important, by the forms of reasoning and inquiry of history and related social sciences (notably anthropology and sociology). Hence he makes a challenging attempt to coordinate history, literature, and social science in an understanding of history that avoids dichotomies yet also distinguishes sharply between literature and fiction. He both approximates history and literature and distances history from fiction that is not heuristically and methodologically in the service of historical inquiry.

There is no linear development among the chapters of this book, but instead cross-references, which may at times involve returning to earlier points or discussions. This approach hopefully generates a sense of the interacting forces that provide connective tissue for the argument. The largest ambition of this book is to further the development and effectiveness of a posthumanist (or other than narrowly human) frame of reference that situates and limits the human in a broader ecological and existential context. This is the context in which any defense of the humanities is best understood. The recent emphasis on the importance of STEM disciplines (science, technology, engineering, and mathematics) has at times, even increasingly, come with the idea that the humanities must be made practical on the model of a STEM discipline and otherwise are to be denigrated if not dismissed as useless. When they take the latter turn, the praise and funding of STEM disciplines go beyond what is desirable and turn away from key problems that bear on understanding, critical thought, and implications for the present and future. What eventuates may well find its place in the type of ultraconservatism or even neoliberalism that defends runaway exploitation of nature and other animals and sees the world only as the repository of resources to be privatized and consumed in ways that putatively serve human interests. The recently prevalent concept of the Anthropocene is helpful in indicating the increased impact of humans on the rest of nature, evident in the issue of global warming. This impact may indicate a human footprint that threatens to stamp out whatever does not fit its mold or accord with its directives, a footprint that easily becomes counterproductive and self-destructive. The concept of the Anthropocene itself should not legitimate anthropocentrism but instead function as an indicator of human impact on the world that is to be called into question when it becomes self-centered and exploitative. One consequence is that theories of evolution should not be taken as a secularization of the great chain of being that overtly or covertly places the human at its pinnacle and functions to justify human uses and abuses of other beings and the environment itself.¹¹

A key aspect of the dominance of a narrow, exclusivist humanism, which may be further narrowed from speciesism to chauvinistic nationalism and racism, is the increasing division of the population, both within countries and across the world, into a small class of the very wealthy and an overwhelming number of the poor, with a shrinking of the middle class. In the United States, one seems to have had a modified (and perhaps soon-to-be exaggerated) return to the Gilded Age with its privileged class of the superrich, its drive toward privatization (including even highways and prisons), and its unregulated or deregulated economic and financial system. Recently one has even witnessed the emergence of extremely conservative and authoritarian if not neofascist tendencies with significant popular support. Indeed one frequently invoked statistic has some sixty odd individuals owning as much wealth as the entire bottom half of the world’s population, and within the United States, attention has at times turned from the wealthiest 1% to the superprivileged 1/10 of 1%. Whatever the precise statistics may be, extreme inequality is blatantly obvious, and it is a scandal that has been focused on by both Pope Francis and Bernie Sanders, a conjunction that may remind us that one of the first Jewish democratic socialists was Jesus Christ. Recent events also remind us that a large group of people may not act or vote in their own rational best interest but be moved not only by warranted grievances but also by affective and ideological, indeed phantasmatic and hateful, forces, including modes of prejudice and scapegoating. My conviction is that a sustained concern for other peoples, other times, and other-than-human beings forms the larger frame of reference in which an insistence on economic, social, and ecological issues as they affect humans must be seen in order to be better understood and addressed. A crucial threshold shall have been crossed when such a concern has a prominent place on political agendas of movements and parties.

On the cover of this book is a photograph of a katsina carving by Aaron Honyumptewa. The katsina is a Yowe or Priestkiller. Despite their legendary reputation as a people of peace, the Hopi, like other Pueblo peoples, including the Zuni, nonetheless at times took part in internal and external conflict, notably in the seventeenth century, culminating in the Pueblo Revolt of 1680. (The carver, Aaron Honyumptewa, is, he reported, Hopi and Picuris, and when I purchased the katsina from him at the 2015 Indian Market in Santa Fe, he stated that the Indian in the katsina was not a Hopi but a member of another tribe who had been engaged by the Hopi to undertake the violent act, which he asserted they refrained from performing themselves. He also said that the katsina had shocked some of his Catholic Hispanic neighbors, and it was certainly the center of much attention and some controversy at the preview the evening before the beginning of the market.)

The 1680 revolt was directed against the Spanish conquistadors and their clerical wing, who had at times attempted to destroy native religious practices, including kivas and katsinas. Echoes and ghosts of the conflict have not entirely disappeared, especially surrounding the annual fiesta in Santa Fe celebrating the 1692 reentry (Entrada) of the Spanish under Antonio de Vargas after the violent suppression of the Pueblo Revolt. Efforts have been made to make the celebration more inclusive, at times by seeing the